


The Wonders of this World Go On

by waltswhits



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental parents, Alternate Universe, Ineffable Dads, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltswhits/pseuds/waltswhits
Summary: In which a “workplace mix up” lands a very unprepared angel and demon with two (possibly the Antichrist) children.





	The Wonders of this World Go On

**Author's Note:**

> “We're having a miracle on earth  
> Mother nature does it all for us  
> The wonders of this world go on  
> The hanging Gardens of Babylon  
> Captain Cook and Cain and Abel  
> Jimi Hendrix to the Tower of Babel  
> It's a miracle, it's a miracle  
> It's a miracle, it's a miracle.”  
> \- Queen, The Miracle

It had not, indeed, been a dark and stormy night. Dark, yes, with the dusk that usually accompanies those single-digit, hushed hours; but stormy, it was not. Yet on this ordinary, dark night, something very strange was certainly beginning.

Crowley closed the driver’s side door of his familiar Bentley and immediately placed his head in his hands. This was supposed to be simple, cursedly, carefully simple. Was it really his fault those insipid nuns couldn’t tell a newborn from a napkin? He had done his job, and they? Well, they had ruined a millennia of planning in one fell, gossipy swoop.

Yes, he had at least done what Hell had commanded he do (in the middle of a perfectly nice night, and rather inconveniently, he might add). Mostly. Stupid Aziraphale and his stupid little perfect voice that had taken up permanent residence in his conscience.

There was no use sitting in his car in the empty lot any longer. He willed the key to turn in the ignition and hesitantly placed his hands on the wheel.

Helpfully, the stereo began to play “I’m Going Slightly Mad” (from Queen's Greatest Hits, of course. His Bentley wouldn’t have it any other way). Yes, he thought, he _was_ one card short of a full deck, wasn’t he.

He lifted his head to look in the backseat at his so precious, so unexpected cargo- two baskets buckled carefully to the leather seats. He let out a deep sigh, and pressed down the gas pedal.

_“Are they trying to tell you something?_  
_You’re missing that one final screw._  
_You’re simply not in the pink, my dear._  
_To be honest, you haven’t got a clue.”_  
Freddy Mercury sang at him, like the disapproving parent he never had.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Crowley muttered.  
He tried to remember heaven. (Usually, he tried not to.) Did he remember being born? No, surely not. Was there someone there to tuck him into his (celestial, probably pastel) bed? To brush his knotted hair and clean his face? He didn’t know.

For a moment, Crowley considered turning right around and forgetting the whole foolish thing. But he couldn’t bear the idea of what might happen if he did. Then again, he didn’t have a clear idea of what would happen if he didn’t turn back. With a sigh, he turned up the stereo and sped on.

***

Crowley parked next to the bookshop in the spot that was always miraculously unoccupied. He stepped out onto the street, opened the car’s backseat door, and took one basket in each hand.

He knocked at the bookshop’s door with a carefully positioned, but loud elbow. After a few minutes of feeling like the most absolute fool, the door opened, revealing a sleepy Aziraphale in a dressing gown.

“My dear, it had better be quite important.” He put on his sternest face, which wasn’t very. “Oh! You brought food?” He gestured to the baskets in delighted confusion.  
“It _is_. Important, I mean.”  
Crowley decided to cut to the chase, and thrust one of the baskets into Aziraphale’s perplexed hands. He opened the lid, and gasped at the sight- a newborn baby lay inside, still dressed in his hospital swaddling clothes.  
Crowley opened the other basket to reveal yet another baby.  
“One of these babies is the antichrist.”  
Aziraphale covered a shriek with his free hand.  
“Bit of a problem. Don’t know which is which.”

Crowley figured he deserved the answering slap to the face.

“Crowley! What were you thinking- _how_ did you even come to possess the-“ Aziraphale dropped to a tense whisper, “ _Antichrist_ “.  
“We had a mix up at work?” Crowley squeaked.  
Aziraphale shook his head, pursing his lips in disapproval. “Take this back, I’ll not- I’ll not hold it.” He thrust the basket back into Crowley’s hand.  
“ _He_ is a baby.” Crowley’s eyebrows furrowed. “And he might be a perfectly normal human one, so watch your _blessed_ mouth.”  
Aziraphale sighed. He knew when he wasn’t getting anywhere with the demon. “Well. What do you expect me to do with two newborn children of dubious parentage? Surely you must want me to do something, my dear, for you to wake me at this ungodly hour.”

Crowley realized he was blushing. He hadn’t thought of how we was going to phrase it, hadn’t even rehearsed it in his own head, he’d just gone on gut instinct.  
He took in a deep breath. “Help...help me take care of them, angel?” Crowley eked out in a very small voice.

**Author's Note:**

> Discontinued indefinitely


End file.
